


Down a Hill At High Speed

by Tepre



Series: Prompted one-shots & drabbles [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dirty Talk, Greenhouse, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Sex Pollen, also fyi harry's glasses are charmed against fogging up, dirty floors, oh boy ok, privacy pronounced as preevasee, tap dancing napkin, very mild angst to my standards but then again I am a living angst monster so who knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-17 05:42:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17554472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tepre/pseuds/Tepre
Summary: Draco is reckless with a fern and Harry is his babysitter.





	Down a Hill At High Speed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OTPshipper98](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OTPshipper98/gifts).



> The dear [@OTPshipper98](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OTPshipper98/pseuds/OTPshipper98) prompted: Drarry + "I want to touch you so bad." 
> 
> So, here we are. Two boys wanking in the greenhouse. I have nothing to say for myself, other than sorry Neville, sorry prof Sprout, sorry anyone who wants their smut to NOT read like a Herbology essay. The rest of yous had it coming. 
> 
> ❤️!

Neville was the one to come tell him. Harry had been in the Great Hall at the time, trying to comfort a homesick first year by making a napkin tap dance around a cup of tea. The girl gave a small laugh, wiping her eyes with her sleeve bunched in her hand, and at first Harry only half listened when Neville leaned close to tell him – quietly – what had happened. 

He _hmm_ ’d a response, and only then processed the words. Froze. The napkin on the table was flapping its little corners, jazz hands. 

“He won’t let me get Pomfrey,” Neville continued, eyes darting around the hall – nervous. “I didn’t know who else—”

“What—” Harry eyed the first year, then slid away, stood up. Neville grabbed his arm, wanting to get them walking, but Harry held back for a moment, wanting to know what— “can I possibly do?” 

“I need to get him out of there before lunch. I promised Sprout I’d lock up. And I still need to stabilise the temperature charms, bloody clean up the mess, repot at least a few of the—”

“Fine, yes. Okay.” He cleared his throat. “So what, you want me to—what? Talk to him?” 

Neville held his gaze for a moment. “He listens to you.” 

“No he doesn’t,” Harry said, a mumble. He marched them out the hall with a small wave at the distracted first year and hot flush up rising up the back of his neck. 

* 

From what Harry could gather, it had happened like this: Neville was the only 8th year with keys to the greenhouse, and Draco had asked him whether he could be allowed in for an hour or two – had needed a handful of Frater Fern seeds for a potion he’d been working on. It was a Level 9 potion, he’d said, one that for sure would get him into the programme he’d been after, or at least get him an interview. Or would get his name off the waiting list, on which he’d been idling for _months,_ completely outrageous, you’d think academia would be beyond petty politics but no, apparently they—

“I told him,” Neville explained, talking fast and out of breath as they’d walked down the hill toward the greenhouse, “I said to him, you know the fern is tricky, right? They call it the Frisky Fern, you know, and it’s not funny really, what with the spores I mean, it’s dangerous, and he was all like, ‘ugh Longbottom I think I know how to harvest a bloody’—”

They stopped by the glass doors. The temperature inside the greenhouse was on the fritz, as Neville had said, and the panes were fogged up, making it hard to see inside – blurring everything into shapes of green. 

“Right,” Harry said, a hand on the handle. “Where is he?” 

“Probably by the gillyweed patch.” Neville rocked back a step, losing his balance on the slippery moss. “That’s where he was before.” 

“Right. Well.” 

“Should I—?” 

“No. No, I’ll—You stay. God. Jesus. Okay.” He gave Neville a shaky smile. “Anything else I need to know?” 

Neville huffed a laugh, grimaced. “Just don’t get that stuff on you,” he said, shaking his head. Then nodding, then shaking it again. 

* 

He listens to you, Neville had said, meaning: he listens to _you_ now. He listens to you, _now_. Meaning, 8th year saw Draco gaunt and quiet and strange, silent in class but prone to random bursts of petty anger at the slightest provocation. A 5th year Hufflepuff who walked into him and spilled pumpkin juice down his robes got called a colossal abomination and waste of air. A 7th year whose drying charm brushed too close to Draco’s arm was berated for a full ten minutes on careless casting and privacy (pronounced, in his clipped tones, as _pree-va-see_ ), and a poor first year whose cat curled its tail around Draco’s calf in passing was titled a cretin, was ordered to keep her _vile animal_ in check, because how dare she, how dare she—!

Harry, who had passed by the arched hallway when it happened, stepped into the scene with a fast-beating heart and a hard, “Enough.” Then, “Enough, Draco. Leave her alone.” 

And Draco, rather unexpectedly, fell quiet. He stared at Harry, eyes wide and a flush spreading along his jaw. His mouth worked, then closed. He swallowed, looked away, then turned – stalked off without so much as a word of parting. 

That’s how it started. It was that same first year who then came to get Harry, a week or so later, when Draco was seconds away from hexing a Ravenclaw right outside of History of Magic class – wands drawn, the both of them breathing harsh, the Ravenclaw saying, _Give me reason, Malfoy. Give me a single reason._

“Hey, no,” was what Harry had to say about that, walking toward the two of them, arm outstretched and coming down like he was lowering their wands for them. “Draco, hey. No. Come on.” 

And Draco, breathing through his nose, hair a bit of a mess – his robes ruffled – lowered his wand. His jaw was clenched. He didn’t say a word. 

“That’s right,” the Ravenclaw said when Draco picked up his bag from where it had been thrown. And then again, louder, “That’s right!” when Draco stormed off.

In the month that followed Harry had been called to talk down a furious Draco a total of five times. In the month after that, the range of his new duty expanded to come collect Draco from the various places he took to hide, to lock himself in, most often the last booth of the 4th floor bathroom. _Hey,_ is all Harry would have to say, hands in his pocket, lingering outside the closed door. _We’re late to class. Come._ And surely enough, a minute later, the door would open. Draco would come out, face blotchy and angry, pushing past without so much as a glance. 

“Great, thanks for asking,” Harry would mumble, following Draco out the bathroom a moment later. “No, you’re welcome. It’s no bother, I love babysitting, it’s great fun. I’m having great fun.” 

“What are you muttering about?” Draco would shoot back, a low glance over his shoulder, aimed at Harry’s feet. 

“Nothing,” Harry would say, briefly looking up at the ceiling. 

* 

Draco was, in fact, still where Neville had left him: hunched in on himself on the floor by the hedged gillyweed patch. His knees were drawn up, his arms slung over them, his head low between his shoulders. From the tense movement of his back Harry could see he was breathing fast, heavy, shaking slightly. 

Harry came to a stop a few steps away. He leaned back against a table crowded with small pots of twisting tomato vines. 

“Draco,” he said, aiming for quiet. Comforting. “Neville needs to lock up. You need to—to go, I’m afraid.” 

Draco groaned, shoulders tensing further. When he answered it was almost a whisper, a terse, “No.” And, “Fuck off.” 

“Draco. You can’t—”

“No!” He lifted his head from between his knees, and his face was as red as Harry had ever seen it – sweaty along his hairline, pupils blown, his grey eyes almost black. “I can’t—!” He caught himself, huffed through his nose. “I can’t go out like this.” 

His voice was gravelly and low. He sounded like he needed a glass of water, to clear his throat. Something about that made Harry’s stomach clench, made him feel a size too big for his skin. It was hot in the greenhouse. He felt hot. 

“How . . .” Harry swallowed. “How bad is it?” 

Draco tried to smirk at the question, but it came out wobbly. Morphed into a grimace. “Bad,” he said, simply enough, then dropped back to lean against the glass pane behind him. He closed his eyes. “Merlin,” he whispered, hands gripping his knees. His hips twitched, a hapless, sudden little movement, and Harry looked away in a flash – swallowing twice more. 

He asked his next question to the young prune tree in the corner. “How long until it . . . wears off, then?” 

Draco grunted. Harry could see him shifting, bunching the fabric at his thighs. “It—Gods. It doesn’t.” He laughed at that, a soft, humourless sound. “I’ll need to . . . God. So stupid. Fucking plant. This _fucking_ year, I—”

“Okay. Well, why don’t you just . . .” Harry gestured, vaguely, and Draco looked at him through low lashes. Harry didn’t think it was possible, but the flush – high on his cheeks, mottled on his jaw – darkened, spread. Draco clenched his jaw, grit his teeth. His eyes darted down and away a few times, and were fixed on Harry’s shoes when he said, 

“I can’t.” 

On the other side of the greenhouse, a large plant was waving its viney branches like arms. Like it was saying hello from a distance. There was a pop, a watery sound. The smell of earth was strong. 

“You . . . can’t.” 

Draco didn’t look up. He said, voice flat, “I can’t.” 

“When you say ‘can’t’, you mean that—?” 

“I can’t—! I can’t get off, okay? I can’t. I haven’t. Since the—since. I can’t think of—” The grimace was back in place again. “Is this embarrassing enough for you yet? I can’t wank and I can’t go out there and Neville Longbottom can fuck off and so can you.” He finished with a pitched gasp, a loud rush of air, like talking took it out of him. Like someone else had pushed the words from him, like he immediately wanted to take them back. 

Harry’s heartbeat sounded loud in his ears. A memory came to him, a twisted and unbidden thing, of a day a few weeks after the battle – after another funeral, another afternoon giving testimonies – when he locked himself up in the bathroom of Grimmauld Place 12 and shoved a hand down his pants. He went at it at a brutal pace, trying to get himself to come as quickly as possible, to only feel that – his hand on his cock, the quick lick of arousal – and nothing else. 

It hadn’t worked. After ten achy, frustrating minutes, he gave up with a grunt. Washed his hands. His face. Scratched his hands through his hair. Stayed like that for a while, low over the sink, water dripping down his nose. 

“Yeah,” Harry said, not much in response. Then: “You need to clear your mind.” 

Draco looked up at him, sudden and taken aback. Harry continued, feeling the blush on the sides of his neck. His temples. “What did you usually think of, when you . . .?” 

“Oh my God,” was Draco’s answer, dropping his head back again. He covered his eyes with the backs of his hands, too embarrassed. 

“I mean it. What did you think of? Before?” 

“I am _absolutely_ not telling you that.” The words were a bit muffled from behind his arms. 

“Okay, well . . .” The table was digging into Harry’s lower back. His feet felt big and clumsy and his arms heavy. He tried to lean back, balance, but instead went to sit down on the cold ground, one leg drawn up, the other stretched out – almost opposite Draco. He wiped the dirt from his hands on the sides of his jeans. “How about the . . . well. The last person you were with? Was that? Can you think about that?” 

Draco’s hands slid from his eyes into his hair, combing his fingers through it in an agitated way. “The last person I was with,” he repeated, quietly, on a huff. As though he couldn’t believe the statement. He dropped his hands, a frustrated gesture, and stretched out one leg. Looked away. His robes had fallen a little open, and the tenting of his trousers was obvious now. 

Harry wanted to look away but didn’t. His heart flipped. He could feel it in his teeth, the heat of humiliation overlapping with the foggy heat of the greenhouse. He pulled at his jumper. It was ineffective. The meaning of Draco’s tone got through to him slowly, filtered through the slow slug of his mind. 

He hadn’t been with anyone yet. 

“How about . . .” Harry started, but his voice was gravelly, his words unclear. He tried again, “How about what you’d like it to be?” 

Draco didn’t reply, didn’t turn to look at Harry. He did, however, make a quiet sound. A panicked, back-of-the-throat little sound, followed by another aborted hitch of his hips. Harry, still transfixed, could see his cock twitching against the zip of his trousers.

Fighting a hysteric giggle at the sight, at his own muddled reaction to it, Harry added, “Shall I tell you about my first time, then?” 

Draco nearly laughed at that, said, “Lord, no.” He made as though to look up but stopped himself halfway, rolling his head back against the glass instead. His Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. He’d put a hand high on his thigh, thumb close to the outline of his cock. Harry could imagine the ache. Could imagine how badly he wanted to touch himself, how frightened he was of what memories might float to the surface if he did. If he closed his eyes, if he let go. 

Harry didn’t intend to speak. The words tumbled out of him, quiet in the heat between them. “I used to . . . I had this fantasy. That I’d be in the showers, after practice, and that . . .” His tongue felt thick in his mouth. Clumsy. “That someone would come in. And that they’d—see. That I was hard. And they’d go to their knees, and—” He had to take a breath, quick, say, “Suck me. Still dressed. With the water on, so they’d . . . get all wet. Swallow me down, in one go, like—”

Draco groaned. Gripped the base of his cock through his trousers. His robes had fallen open fully, and Harry could see the curve of his erection, the damp spot where the cock head had rubbed up against the cloth. 

Harry’s throat clenched. His stomach was somewhere several miles below him. 

“What else,” Draco asked, so quiet Harry could barely hear him. 

“What . . .” Harry’s mind raced, heady, casting back to the handful of fantasies he’d entertained through the years – the ones that he returned to, in the odd moments of quiet during his time at school. On a Saturday morning behind the safety of his closed bed curtains. The tight pop of a silencing charm surrounding him. That day in 4th year when Seamus told them he’d found out what the lubrication spell was his brother had mentioned over the summer. What had he thought about, then, young and frantic and coming so quickly a fantasy was barely even needed, a touch and the heat of his hand had been enough to—

“In detention,” he said, sounding far away even to himself. “Alone in class. Then—under the table. They’d suck me, and I’d have to be quiet, I’d have to—“ He licked his lips. “Still have to do homework, so I’d keep writing, while their mouth would—”

Draco was rubbing himself now. He was frowning, eyes still closed, his chest rising and falling rapidly. The moment Harry paused the frown deepened, his hand stopped, and so Harry picked up the babble at a different place, describing how he’d be—

“—behind the pitch, under the stands. They’d wank me, or—yeah. There’d be practice, or people about, and so we’d have to not make a sound. Making out. Making out with their hand on me, going real fast, until—”

Draco was grinding up against his palm now, quick, gyrating movements. He was biting down on his lip hard, holding back small sounds – puffing out breaths through his nose. He was shivering, it seemed. His hand was shaky over his cock. How long hadn’t he done this, Harry wondered. How many months. Longer still. 

“Don’t—” Draco ground out, pure frustration. “I can’t—You need to keep—”

“Take it out,” Harry told him. 

Draco whimpered. 

“Take it out. It’ll be better. It’ll be easier, Draco, just—”

Draco fumbled with his button, his fly, hands clumsy. Eyes still shut. He muttered a quiet fuck when he got his hand around his cock, and, as per instruction, tugged his pants down for Harry to see. 

“Oh,” Harry said, and _oh._ He knew what they’d been doing, in that vague way he reflected on most of his decision making: not looking straight at it but a little to the side, as though distracted. But if there was any doubt about what he’d set to do there was no doubt now, painfully hard in his jeans as he watched Draco’s hand move down and over his own cock. Draco was leaking, the pre-come slicking the way, and Harry had to press the heel of his hand to his crotch, imagining the touch, saying, 

“That’s good, isn’t it? Doesn’t that feel good?” 

Draco nodded, breathless. His lips were parted, mouth open, and in a hot flash Harry wanted to put his fingers to that tongue. “God,” Harry panted, mind clouding over. “Do you ever think about sucking someone?” 

At this, Draco opened his eyes. Barely, at that, his lashes still fanned over his cheeks – as though it took him effort to look, to lift his gaze. He took in Harry, then – squeezing his own erection through his jeans, eyes fixed on Draco’s hand – and wanked himself faster. He nodded again. Gave a soundless, “Yeah.” 

That and the wet sounds of Draco’s hand had Harry crawling out of his skin for a second, mindless for what to do. He grunted, squeezed himself harder, then let go, undid his zip, said, “How’d you do it? How’d you— _God._ How’d you—”

Draco moaned, licked his lips, and his mouth came into sharp focus. Bitten and plump and Harry wanted to crawl over. Wanted to touch, in whatever way just – touch. Drape his body over Draco’s, slide their mouths together, their cocks, anything, anything to—

“I want to touch you,” he said, sounding crazed, he thought. Desperate. “I want to touch you so bad.” 

Draco nodded, a haphazard movement, letting his legs fall open, saying “Yeah, yes, Merlin, just—“ And then, in the same breath, “No, fuck. Spores. I’m—covered in the—”

Harry, who was already getting to his knees, sat back on his heels with a pained sound. His cock, trapped against the elastic of his briefs, dribbled come down his belly, over the fabric. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this turned on. Possibly never, he thought, frantic, all at once aching for the visible strip of skin of Draco’s ankle. For his legs, the muscle of him through his trousers, the shape of his chest every time he took a shaky breath in – straining up against his shirt. His fingers, impossibly long, wrapped around his ruddy cock, thumb pressing under the glans. 

“Fuck,” Draco breathed. “Fuck, I’d—” He licked his swollen lips again, said, “I’d suck you on my knees. I’ve wanted—God. In the—ah, fuck. Showers. Lock the door. Take your cock and—ah!” 

Harry was stripping his own cock in earnest now, had pushed the elastic under his balls, his eyes wild between Draco’s cock and his lips, his words, the fall of his hair where strands of it got caught in the wet corner of his mouth. 

“You can come,” Draco said, eyes dark, sliding further down against the glass, “in my mouth, I’d let you, I’d swallow if you—”

That was all it took, in the end. Harry came in his fist, over his fingers, on his shirt and jeans and the ground. He had to put a hand to the ground at the force of it, vision blurring out for a good moment – shaking, shuddering his way through it. On his knees, in the foggy heat of the greenhouse, the muddy ground soaking through his jeans. 

“Harry,” Draco said, pitched and breathless, a plea. His hand was working fast over his cock, hard and flushed, his balls high and tight. His arousal had an undertone of fear, in that moment, like running down a hill at high speed and knowing you could tumble, not knowing how to stop it from happening. 

“Come,” Harry said, swallowing. He was still holding on to his half-hard cock. “You can come now.” 

And Draco, without much ado, did as bid. He arched into his hand, back coming off the glass, head thrown back – neck long. He didn’t make a sound, mouth open, gasping, and came – and came, shooting all over his robes, everywhere, some of it catching on the bottom of his chin. It went on for a while and he stroked himself through it, rolled his hips into the channel of his fist even when his cock stopped twitching, until he seemed too sensitive, aching at his own touch. All throughout his gaze was hot and steady on Harry. And Harry, who hadn’t thought he could blush at anything at this point – flushed deeply, a warm trickle down his spine. 

Draco stilled. Breathed, deeply. In, out. Lifted his head, let it drop back down with a thump. “Fuck,” he said, and laughed, helpless. “ _Fuck._ ” 

He still had a few stands of hair pulled to the corner of his mouth. A spot of come on his chin. Dirt on his cheek, his forehead. 

Harry moved without thought. Leaned over, pulled at Draco’s ankle – pulled him so he slid to his back, pulled and moved over him, settling quick and heavy between his legs. Draco made a sound, something between surprise and a moan, one hand coming up to Harry’s chest just as Harry leaned down, making for his mouth. 

“Wait, the—!” 

Harry was held at bay for a second, feeling his own breath on Draco’s lips. The heat of him, so close. 

“Spores,” Draco finished, quiet. His eyes were on Harry’s mouth. He tilted up a little, their lips brushing, and Harry pulled back a fraction, letting Draco’s chase it. A hitched breath, a small, wet sound of a tongue, and Harry ducked down, sucked the come from Draco’s chin. Draco’s hand slid into his hair, gripping, and Harry smiled against his skin – pulled back a little to look down. With a thumb he wiped at the dirt on Draco’s cheek. Pulled the hair from his mouth. Draco looked up, eyes clouded, and tugged at him, then, heartbeat beating fast under his pulse point – offering his mouth for a kiss. 

Harry sank into the kiss with a moist sound of lips parting. Tongues sliding together. Draco kissed hot and sweet, all need and desire and a little hesitation, wanting it right, wanting to give pleasure. It made Harry heady, made him want to grind down, and with a shudder – an itchy, unfamiliar heat that spread fire-quick through his system – he realised he was hard again. Pressing close against Draco’s thigh. 

“Spores,” he breathed against Draco’s mouth, mind clearing for a second – then fogging over again into the heat of the kiss, the press of hard muscle beneath him. 

“Spores,” Draco answered, both hands in Harry’s hair, keeping him near, arching up against him. 

“Well,” Harry said, and put a hot palm to Draco’s ribs. Counting them, feeling the shape of him. Draco shuddered, voice muffled into kisses when he said, 

“I told you. You didn’t listen.” 

“I heard,” Harry said, his stubble catching on Draco’s. His kiss turning sloppy, opened mouthed and then soft again, smaller. “I listen,” he added, quieter still. 

On the other side of the greenhouse one of the plants was still waving about, moving to a non-existent tune. Out on the grounds, Neville was completing a third walk around the lake, glancing nervously at his watch. The giant squid swam close to the surface, setting the water rippling, sending shallow waves to lap at the banks.


End file.
